


The Long Road: a DAO Novelization

by kasswrites



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Novelization, Slow Burn, Warrior Mahariel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasswrites/pseuds/kasswrites
Summary: “Some are destined for darker things than others, da’len. There is death in your path, but there is also life; love. Take comfort in this.”Tragedy strikes in the Dalish clan of Illyria Mahariel. To save herself, she must join the Grey Wardens; a band of warriors whose sole purpose is to defeat the darkspawn blight. Living among humans, she must travel Ferelden to unite the nation against the darkspawn.Should she fail, Ferelden will fall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been my baby for the past four years, which is about how long it’s taken to plan, write, and edit with life constantly getting in the way. It’s a pretty standard canon novelization – a few minor things like locations are altered but nothing dramatic is changed in the storyline. This was a project I never really intended to share; it was more of an exercise in writing my first novel-length piece, but I figured I might as well upload it for some constructive feedback! I wanted this to be a complete novelization: I didn’t assume any knowledge at all, but I also tried not to spell everything out. That said, I hope you like it!
> 
> NB: Chapter one is a lot shorter than most of the other chapters – it’s a long fic.

“This place makes me nervous.”

Illyria surveyed the ruin, pressing her fingers into the wood of her bow. As usual, she and Tamlen were on the same page. The pillars around them were crumbled, and the ceiling of the cave dipped in places. The stench of rotting flesh permeated in the air.

“So talk, if it calms you.” They spoke in whispers, as if prey was near.

Tamlen paused. His hand tightened around the dagger strapped to his leg. “You never told me how you slipped the hook today. Sival told me last night that you were assisting Ilen. She was excited to have you at camp for a full day.”

Illyria shrugged. “Fenarel was easily swayed. The parties have been large lately; it has been too long since the two of us we were out.” She glanced at the ceiling, swallowing. “You know how I get.”

“I know.” Tamlen ghosted his fingertips over a crumbling pillar. His brow furrowed. “Human.”

Illyria stepped closer. “Not possible. Why would they build such a place? Beside you is a carving of Mythal.”

Tamlen turned to the carving, twisting his hand over his chest and bowing. “Perhaps some of our ancestors lived here...in caves, like the children of the stone.” He wandered deeper into the darkness, his footsteps echoing through the hall.

“I will stay above ground,” Illyria muttered. She flicked her eyes up to the ceiling, which was so thick with cobwebs it was entirely white. “And the human architecture?”

Tamlen pressed his fingers to a nearby pillar, and the stone crumbled at his touch. It fell to the ground, rebounding with a crash. Illyria bit the inside of her cheek. “Tamlen, enough. I do not like this. Can you—” a scuffling sound echoed into the chamber.

On reflex, she drew and nocked an arrow. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tamlen had drawn his blades.

They headed in the direction of the sound, their footsteps landing in silent unison. An arch loomed before them. Sharp fragments of the stone protruded into the doorway, like misshapen teeth.

The sound returned, louder this time. Illyria’s fingers trembled on her bowstring as the creature making it came into view.

It stood on two gnarled feet, but its body hunched so profoundly that the claws protruding from its fingers scraped along the ground. Its skin was completely black, as were its bulbous eyes, which widened at the sight of them. Pointed ears swiveled as it rocked back and forth, sizing them up.

An arrow buried itself in the creature’s chest before Illyria realised she’d released it. A scream of pain escaped the creature’s mouth, and she readied another arrow quickly. This one hit what Illyria might have called a shoulder, had it not been so twisted and gnarled. The creature charged at them, its body swerving from side to side.

Tamlen ran toward the creature, a wordless scream leaving his mouth, and its eyes turned to him. It raked at the air with its talons, but Tamlen stepped back quickly. Dodging and shifting, he danced with the creature, only swiping at it occasionally. Illyria lined up another arrow, breathing deep to halt the trembling in her fingers. She let out a cry, and released her bowstring as the creature turned toward it. It drove into the creature’s eye with a smack, protruding from the other side of its skull.

The creature struggled, went limp, then sagged to the ground. Black blood trickled from its eye, forming a pool around it. Illyria wanted to look away, but she couldn’t seem to make herself.

“We leave now,” she demanded, striding to where the creature lay. Tamlen was staring at it too, a glint in his eyes. “Tamlen,” she warned. “I know you feel the darkness.”

Finally, he looked up at her. “I still think the value of this place outweighs the danger, my heart. Think of what we could learn here.”

She averted her eyes, her lips twisting into a wry smile at the old endearment. “Not true. And you will not convince me with honeyed words.”

“There could be things here from the days of _Elvhenan_ , Illyria! In the name of Andruil...think of what the Keeper would say!”

Illyria sidestepped the blood that was inching toward her boots, slicing a hand through the air. “You know as well as I that we should have returned to Marethari for guidance the moment we found this place. I know it is important, but it is not worth losing our lives over. The Keeper would tell you the same, little blade.”

“Losing our lives? You are dramatic sometimes, little arrow,” he teased, knowing fully well she was not. “How can I be in danger with the mighty Illyria by my side?” he muttered, smirking.

“ _Tamlen_ ,” she chided, unimpressed.

“Do you trust me?” his eyes bore into hers.

“You know my answer.”

“Then let us continue. Only until we find something to take back to the clan.” Illyria sighed. She knew he would press on whether she agreed or not.

Illyria’s body began to rebel as they travelled further underground. Her abdomen tightened, and her hands began to slip on her bow, slick with sweat. They had to turn back thrice, when the corridors ahead of them were blocked by cave-ins. Her eyes continually drifted toward the ceiling, and she had to wipe her palms on her leggings.

Tamlen looked over at her, his gaze lingering. “Little arrow. I apologise, I forgot. I didn’t think—are you okay?”

“Fine,” Illyria muttered. She pushed on, past the tall statues lining the corridor.

Tamlen did not follow her. “These are humans.” She turned to see him focused on one of the statues. It was a woman in a long gown, her hair pulled back sharply from her face. Her eyes were flat and cruel, her mouth a straight line. Illyria stood back. “These bowls...” Tamlen murmured. “Each of the statues holds one.” He stood on his toes, craning his neck, but the statue was too tall for him to see over the rim. “I wonder about their purpose.”

“Flames, perhaps,” Illyria shrugged, eyeing the others. “Paivel says humans need light in order to see.”

“Of course!” Tamlen grinned then sighed, taking her hands in his. “I have missed this,” he said, quietly. “Just the two of us, the way it used to be.”

Illyria glanced up at the ceiling, and down at their hands. “Tamlen...” she made a face, “this is not the place.”

“Little arrow—”

“You know it is not the way it used to be.” Tamlen stilled for a moment. He dropped her hands, avoiding her eyes.

“If you think it would take more than six winters for me to understand that, you insult me, Illyria.”

She lay a conciliatory hand on his shoulder, her brows pulled together. “I am sorry, I just—” he shrugged her off, walking onward, “I did not want to give—”

“Forget I said anything at all. Let us move on.”

Illyria sighed, following. They spoke sparingly from there.

The darkness thickened as they progressed further into the cave, and Tamlen slipped his glowstone from his leathers, holding it low to avoid attracting unwanted attention. For a second, its blue glow took her back to the night the Keeper had gifted him with it; the night they received their vallaslin. It was four years ago now; the night they had entered adulthood together. Illyria scarcely remembered how Tamlen looked without the silver tattoos on his forehead and cheeks. Her fingers closed around the golden pendant hanging at her throat. Her gift had been more important than a glowstone.

A blind corner loomed ahead, and Illyria halted as they rounded it. Her fingers fell from her pendant to draw an arrow. “We should go back,” she spoke in her calmest voice. Before them lay six corpses, so rotten that their skeletons were exposed.

Tamlen shook his head, but the way his teeth worried his bottom lip gave him away. She wondered if his refusal came from a place of spite. “I will not run back until I know there is something of worth here.” He stepped forward. “We have come this far; we have killed that creature in—”

The words died in his throat when the bony fingers of a corpse curled around his ankle. The cadaver’s eyes lit up and it pulled at Tamlen’s ankle until he kicked his leg loose, drawing his daggers. Illyria loosed an arrow at it, extinguishing the red light, then shoved her bow aside. She drew her sword from the belt at her waist as the other five rose, bare bones scraping against one another. Her fingers curled around the dagger strapped to her thigh and she started in on the first corpse, slicing through what was left of its neck.

Illyria parried a blow from another corpse’s rusted sword, sinking her dagger into the space between two ribs. It slid in smoothly, and her stomach turned. The corpse jolted and flailed, and Illyria took the opportunity to sever its head from its shoulders. The skull dropped to the stone with a hollow sound.

The next corpse was upon her. They were easy enough opponents, but they unnerved Illyria. She ducked from a blow, stabbing her enemy in the gut, and it staggered backward.

Her breath was ragged by the time they’d culled all six, and she looked over to find Tamlen wiping his daggers clean. “You are improving with the blades,” he observed. Illyria shot him a sharp look, pulling a rag from the pouch at her hip to wipe away the gore. “You are right,” he sighed. “This place is...” he glanced around the corridor and clenched his jaw. “We should leave. It must be only a few hours until nightfall, anyhow, and the deer is long gone.”

“I only want to keep you safe, lethallin.” She looked down at the corpses. “This is not the way of things.” She bent to retrieve her bow, and a cursory examination unearthed a small chip on the lower limb. She ran her fingers along the imperfection, breathing deep.

Tamlen sighed. His teeth still worried at his lip. “I know.” He had never appreciated her caution, but it had saved his life more than once.

Tamlen’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Do you see that?” He was looking out beyond the corpses at a large circle of gold, cut into the floor. It was radiant, and she was silent for a moment.

“Tamlen—”

“Please. Just this one last thing. Then we will return to camp.”

She sighed and stepped forward, gritting her teeth. They picked their way through the corpses, slowly and carefully.

Ahead of the circle was a door, made from the same gold. It loomed into view as they made their way down the corridor, and Tamlen made a small noise of delight, hastening toward it.

Its surface was intricately engraved with patterns that seemed to form a narrative about a battle. Both humans and elves were present in the carvings, but they fought together, against a foe the door didn’t show.

“What can this mean?” she asked softly, trailing her fingers over the metal. “Shemlen and elvhen fighting together?”

Tamlen shook his head. “I know not. There must be something valuable behind such a grand door, though. Shall we open it?”

It took the both of them to haul open the door. Air from the room beyond leaked out, and Illyria froze. A vile stench assailed her senses, not of rot or blood, but something worse. She stepped back, holding a hand to her nose.

“Tamlen...” she didn’t bother to hide the note of fear in her voice. “This place is dangerous.”

“Wait. I see a light...” His voice was faint and calm, and he stepped into the room.

“Tamlen!” Illyria skittered after him, sliding through the gap between the door and the frame. He was right; there was a light, emitting from a mirror in the centre of the room. It was beautiful and ancient, taller than the both of them combined. But instead of reflecting its surroundings, spheres of white light swirled beneath the glass. Framing the mirror was a pointed arch made of marble, inscribed with strange patterns. A small set of stairs curved around its base, and two identical statues flanked it: elven mages with swords in their hands.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Tamlen murmured, transfixed. “I wonder what the writing says.” Illyria hadn’t realised the carvings were words. She wondered if they were written in the shemlen tongue.

“It is not safe, Tamlen.” There was a pit in her stomach, despite the beauty of the mirror. Something felt wrong.

Finally, he tore his eyes from the mirror, but only to shoot her a wry smile. “It has sat here for Ghilan’nain knows how many centuries; what could be dangerous? I will not break it, if that is what worries you.” He stepped forward again and Illyria followed, clutching his arm. “I do wish I knew what the writing is for. Maybe this is...” A whisper floated on the air toward them, curling into Illyria’s ears. They stopped in their tracks. “I…I think something just moved inside the mirror. Did you see that?”

“Tamlen, will you hear my words? Enough. My instincts tell me this is wrong. We need—” he shrugged her off. She felt the blood drain from her face.

“Wait. I just want to know what it is.” A dark spot bled through the light of the mirror, fading away swiftly. Another whisper rang through the room, chilling her. “Do you not see it? There it is again.” Illyria shrank away – whatever was happening here, it wasn’t right. She could _feel_ the darkness that clung to the mirror, extending its tendrils out to her and Tamlen. Why couldn’t he?

“Can you feel that?” he whispered. “I think it knows we are here. I just need to take a closer look...”

“This is close enough.”

Tamlen started up the stairs. If he heard her, he made no indication. She paused, then hurried after him, balling her hands into fists. “It is...showing me places.” Tamlen reached out to touch the glass and she was not quick enough to stay his hand. She gasped as the whisper she’d heard was joined by others. More black spots appeared, each larger than the last. “I can see some kind of city, underground.” Illyria took a step back, maintaining her grip on Tamlen’s forearm. She could see no city. “And...there is a great blackness.” The black spots swirled around Tamlen’s hand.

“Tamlen—”

Everything seemed to happen so fast that Illyria could not comprehend anything. Later, she would look back and find that she could recall no details.

Tamlen’s body tensed, and a jolt ran through him. “No! It saw me, Illyria! It saw me! It’s here.” 

She froze. “Tamlen, take your hand away. Now.”

“I can not! I can not look away, Illyria!”

She pulled at his arm, but he would not move. He was frozen in place. Something was holding him there. “My heart—”

Silver light flashed in the mirror’s surface, forming a thread that connected the black swirls. Illyria wrenched Tamlen’s arm, to no avail.

The light exploded.

Her world turned white as the explosion hurled her into the air. Her limbs flailed before cool stone knocked the air from her lungs, crashing against the back of her head.

She fought for a moment, then fell unconscious.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Illyria woke periodically, but not long enough to make sense of anything but the pain.

It seemed like days went by before she could feel anything else. Eventually, she felt something soft beneath her; something warm against her chest. It was the warmth of someone’s body, and Illyria’s mind went first to Tamlen, but she discarded the idea quickly. It had been years since they’d shared a bed, and the body was far too small.

“Illyria?”

She opened her eyes, sending a wave of pain crashing over her forehead. In front of her was a small, blurred face, framed by red braids. Sival. The seven-year-old was curled up against her chest. A cursory glance around the room told her she was in the Keeper’s aravel.

Her memories pierced her, as sharp as any knife. She stiffened.

“Tamlen...” she breathed. She tried to sit up, succeeding on the second try. Somebody had undone the braids in her hair, and it pulled at her scalp as she sat on it. “Sival, where is he?” The door opened before the child could open her mouth to answer. Illyria froze.

A human filled the doorway, blocking the sunlight.

She stared at it, horrified, until her wits came to her. Bolting upright, she shoved Sival behind her, feeling her right thigh for her dagger. Her stomach sank – it was gone.

“Come no closer,” she demanded, in their strange language.

The human put his hands up, palms out. His gaze was intense on her. “I will not harm you,” he said softly, stepping forward to let in the light. His skin was a deep shade of bronze, his hair black as pitch. Tiny, dark eyes stared at her, and a hoop of gold glinted at one ear as the sun caught it. He wore grey leather armour, and a sword at his back, larger than any Illyria had seen.

Her gaze flit around the aravel, landing on a knife on the Keeper’s crafting table. Pinning the human with her gaze, she eased herself out of bed. Sival remained where she was as Illyria dashed for the knife, gripping it with an unsteady hand.

“Step back,” she commanded, glancing back at Sival. The ground pitched beneath her and she stumbled. “Get...get back.”

“Illyria,” the human uttered, stepping forward. She flinched at the sound of her name. “I am not here to harm—”

A shadow fell upon the room and Illyria’s eyes darted to the doorway. It was Ashalle who stood there, wearing a green tunic and a startled expression. “Illyria, halt! Lower the weapon.” She stepped forward when Illyria did not move. “Illyria. The shem is an ally. He does not mean harm to any of us.”

“How can you be sure?” she demanded, in her mother tongue. A fierce snarl reached her ears, one she barely recognised as her own voice. “They always mean us harm.”

Ashalle smoothed the air with her hands. “ _Da’len_ ,” she touched two fingers to her bottom lip as she spoke. “He found you in the forest and returned you to us.”

Illyria did not lower the knife. Her voice was faint when she spoke again. “And Tamlen? What of him?”

Ashalle’s expression crumbled, and it was all the answer she needed. The knife clattered to the ground and she stumbled back, sinking into the bed.

She stared at her hands. They were shaking. The human said something, but her ears rang so loudly that she heard none of it.

“Illyria.”

She and Ashalle were alone by the time she looked up again. Ashalle was knelt before her, clutching her hands. “Little one. I know not whether you feel it, but you are ill.” Her fingers stroked along Illyria’s palms. “The Keeper has been using the Old Magic to heal you, but...we fear it may not be enough.”

Illyria’s mouth formed words, but no sound came out. She tried again. “How long?” Her head throbbed. “How long has it been since we left?”

“The shem returned you to us late the same day you and Tamlen left—”

Her hands tightened around Ashalle’s. “Then it has been only one night!”

Again, Ashalle grimaced. “You have been in the beyond for a day and a night since you were brought back, little one.”

Illyria’s grip slackened. “Nobody has found Tamlen? Nobody has searched for him?” her fingers shook, but she didn’t try to calm herself. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore.

“Of course, little one; the hunters have been out with no rest.” Ashalle’s voice was soft and stilted. “But...none are yet able to find the ruin this shem claims to have found you near.”

Illyria said nothing.

“The Keeper wished to speak with you as soon as you woke,” Ashalle continued. “She knows...more about this than I. Will you be all right on your own for a moment?” Illyria nodded, and Ashalle left quickly.

Standing, Illyria paced to the door, then back to the bed. As long as she kept moving, she kept her mind quiet.

She had to keep moving.

“I see you are awake.” Illyria whirled toward the door, and her gaze fell upon the Keeper, who stood there in robes of emerald green. A glance at Illyria pulled her silver eyebrows together. “It is fortunate Duncan found you when he did.”

“Duncan?” Illyria paused. “The _human_? I do not understand – how did a shem find the camp?” Pain trickled down her neck, clenching her shoulders. She winced.

“Duncan is not like most humans. I am sure you have heard the stories of Grey Wardens.” Illyria’s brow furrowed. The stories Marethari spoke of were ancient epics about darkspawn and heroes. They were nothing more than stories.

“He appeared out of nowhere with you slung over his shoulder,” the Keeper continued. “You were delirious with fever. He said he found you outside a cave in the forest, unconscious and alone. I know not what dark power held you, little one, but it...nearly bled the life from you. It was difficult even for the Old Magic to keep you alive.”

The words stole the air from Illyria’s lungs. “Then Tamlen...”

“If he is as sick as you were, then his condition is grave. Duncan has returned to the cave to search for darkspawn, but we cannot rely on him to search for Tamlen as well. We must go ourselves, and quickly.” The Keeper halted for a moment. “Did you encounter any strange creatures there? Perhaps one of them wounded you.”

“There were dark creatures,” Illyria admitted, her voice thick. It felt like it had all been a nightmare. “Dead men who walked…a creature the likes of which I had never seen. But it was the mirror that wounded us.”

“A mirror? And it caused all this?” The Keeper’s eyes were worlds away. “I have never heard of such a thing.” A sigh escaped her. “I was hoping for answers when you woke, but there are only more questions. Do you feel well enough to lead the way, little one? We have a much better chance of finding Tamlen with you.”

“Of course,” she said, despite her body’s protest. “I will leave at once.”

Marethari nodded. “The clan is packing up; if there is any truth to what Duncan said, darkspawn may show up in these parts soon. We must get away from that horde.”

“I thought we were staying. You said—”

Marethari shook her head. “The villagers have become aware of us as well. We have stayed too long. It was foolish. Take Merrill with you to the cave; Tamlen’s chances of surviving the journey back are greater with her help.”

Illyria nodded obediently, and the Keeper inclined her head toward a cupboard behind her. “Your armour is in here, your weapons outside.” She reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Illyria’s left ear, and her thoughts calmed at the touch. “Be swift, little one.”

The Keeper left the aravel without another word.

Illyria refused to let herself panic. She stripped the nightgown from her body and put on her armour carefully, piece by piece. Dividing her hair in two, she pulled it over her shoulders and began to braid it. The golden strands were tangled, and she cursed whoever had unravelled her braids while she slept.

Fenarel was leaning against the outside of the aravel, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. “Illyria!” he exclaimed, starting forward. “Is the Keeper sending you back to that cave to search for Tamlen?” Illyria wrapped her braids around her head in a circle, pinned them, and picked up her bow. “Illyria?”

Strapping her bow on her back, she headed toward the centre of camp, scanning the other elves for Merrill’s dark hair. Fenarel had to jog to keep up. “Does everybody know what happened?” the other elves answered her question before Fenarel could. They stopped to watch her go by, whispers curling into her ears about Tamlen and the Grey Warden. Maren followed Illyria with sad eyes as she and Fenarel passed the halla pen. Illyria tore her gaze away quickly.

“The clan has not stopped discussing it since that shem brought you back,” Fenarel said. “Illyria, I want to go with you. The Keeper may not approve, but I know I can help find Tamlen.”

“You can help by following orders. Merrill is supposed to accompany me, and nobody else.”

“Tamlen is my friend too!” Fenarel insisted. “I want to help! If Merrill can risk it, so can I!”

Illyria whirled to face Fenarel. Her anger softened at the quiver in his bottom lip, and she pushed through the pain clouding her head. “Fenarel. I will not disobey the Keeper. Ask her yourself, if it is so important. Merrill and I will leave as soon as I find her.”

Fenarel nodded and hurried back the way they’d come, weaving his way through the other elves nimbly.

Illyria continued, but she didn’t make it far before Ymnil shouted her name. He rushed over, blocking her path, and the other children followed. Kera took her hand, grinning. “Illyria, we have today’s questions!”

“When will we make our Autumn circlets?” Ara asked, before the other girl could finish her sentence.

“Are halla made from snow?” Galeth shouted.

“Will you play Rabbit and Fox with us today?” Sival asked.

“Will you?”

“I want you to be Fox first! You’re the best Fox,” Kera said.

Illyria put up her hands and the children quietened. “We will make our Autumn circlets in two weeks, in time for Lasahara.” She looked to Galeth. “Are the halla as cold as snow?”

“No,” Galeth answered.

“Then they must not be made of snow. But they are the same colour. What colour is that?”

“It’s white,” Ara said.

“Their horns are silver,” Sival interrupted, smirking.

“Well done, Sival. And I cannot play today.” the children sighed a collective sigh. “Ask again tomorrow, little ones. For now, Feri can be Fox.”

Illyria spotted Merrill stepping out of Master Ilen’s aravel, out of the corner of her eye. Leaving the children behind with a promise to return, she called to the mage.

“The Keeper told me I am to accompany you back to those caves,” she called back, before Illyria could open her mouth. “We should make haste; there is not much time.”

Illyria nodded. “Tamlen and I took the northern exit when we...” her voice faltered as the memories flooded her mind – setting out at the break of dawn with Tamlen, setting their strategies for the day’s hunt. She took in a deep breath and let it out again. “When we left.”

 

 

“Illyria! Merrill, wait!”

They stopped in their tracks and Merrill’s eyes narrowed. “I thought we were supposed to go alone.”

Illyria’s head throbbed. She felt like she was trying to breathe, hear, and see underwater. “I told him to ask permission.”

Fenarel sprinted to catch up, and Merrill rolled her eyes at his laboured breath. “The Keeper said it would be wise for me to accompany you,” he said. Merrill began forward with a huff, and Fenarel fell into step beside Illyria.

“How far out is this cave, anyhow?” called the mage, without looking back.

Illyria’s memories were nothing more than a blur. They had been tracking a mule deer, she thought, when they’d stumbled upon the entrance. Or had it been a water deer? She didn’t remember. “We should be there in an hour,” she estimated, “if we keep pace.”

“So near!” Merrill glanced back this time, eyebrows high. “I wonder that none of the hunters have found any sign of him.”

“The entrance was concealed,” Illyria grit out, ending the conversation.

The sun disappeared behind a mass of grey clouds as they covered ground, and the forest darkened. A week had passed since the last rain, and the red and orange leaves that littered the forest floor crunched underfoot.

The path they took through the forest led quickly to an abandoned campsite. Their pace slowed as it came into view, and they fell silent. There was no tent pitched, but a firepit had been dug and put out recently. The ground had been dug over as well; somebody had buried bones to discourage scavengers.

“Do you remember this being here?” Fenarel wandered over to the fire.

Illyria shook her head, shrugging out of her bow. “It is fresh.”

“The Grey Warden refused the Keeper’s hospitality,” supplied Merrill, with no particular inflection. “Perhaps this is his camp. Should we...” she trailed off as a breeze stirred around them, rattling the autumn leaves like dry bones. “Do you hear that?”

“I hear nothing,” Fenarel returned.

Merrill nodded, green eyes narrowing. “Nor I. The forest is still.” Fenarel’s fingers curled around the lower limb of his bow.

“Come,” Illyria muttered, leading on. They walked in silence, which left Illyria with nothing on which to focus but the pain. A cold sweat broke out along her back as her muscles cramped further, twisting and throbbing. Her body was rebelling, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and cry for it to stop. But Tamlen needed her. He was far worse off than she, and alone too.

They passed by a copse of tall pines and Illyria threw them a lingering glance as they passed by. Her feet slowed.

“What?” Merrill stared at her, and Illyria realised she’d spoken aloud.

“I—” she glanced back at the tree. She and Tamlen had left camp so early they hadn’t had time to break their fast, and stumbling upon a blackberry bush had been a pleasant surprise. They’d sat here together, sharing the fruit. Tamlen had wiped his juicy fingers on her arm and she’d swatted him, laughing. “We are on track,” she breathed. Merrill rolled her eyes, leading on.

Fenarel fell into step beside Illyria, sneaking the occasional glance at her profile. “Are you sure you are all right, ‘Lyria?”

The sides of her lips twitched, despite herself. Leave it to Fenarel to remember old nicknames. She nodded. “We need to find him quickly. He will need healing, and the move will be hard on him.”

“Even if the worst has happened,” came Merrill’s voice, “we can not leave his body unburied.”

Illyria stopped. “What?”

Merrill turned, pushing one eyebrow above the other. “I can not imagine he is still alive with the state you were in.” Illyria hated Merrill for saying it. She hated her careless tone, her blank expression, her thoughtless shrug.

Worst of all, she hated that Merrill was making sense.

The muscles of her throat constricted. “Do _not_ talk like that,” she said. “You know nothing.” She thought she felt tears pushing at her eyes, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t sure about much, anymore. “If Tamlen had…had died, I would have felt something. I would already know. I—I...” splitting pain blossomed at the base of her skull, and she bit her tongue.

“You are right,” Merrill conceded. It sounded to Illyria like she was speaking from far, far away. She tried to focus on the grass, but the ground tilted at strange angles. “We should explore further before I go on about my fears. I am—Illyria? Are you all right?” a hand closed around her forearm, supporting her. She didn’t realise until then that she’d been about to fall.

“Fine,” she blinked and pushed herself onward, ignoring Merrill.

She stared at the trees as she passed them. “This is it.” Both Merrill and Fenarel looked up. “We came through here,” she explained. “There was a pillar...” her eyes darted through the foliage. “There!” A sliver of grey stone peeked out from between two maples. Her foot caught on a tree root and she stumbled. She pressed on irrespective, ducking under branches and twisting away from brambles.

Blackness beckoned to her when she stumbled upon the opening. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out, to sense Tamlen. Nothing came.

“I do not like the look of this place,” Merrill muttered, jolting her out of her thoughts. Fenarel hummed in agreement as he caught up, but their protests fell on deaf ears. Illyria was already halfway to the cave’s mouth.

She eased herself down to the cave floor, remembering how Tamlen had stumbled last time. “There is a drop,” she called, her words echoing back to her. The air still smelt of rotting flesh, but it felt different.

Merrill and Fenarel’s footfalls echoed through the ruin as they caught up. Illyria’s feet led her to the corridor she and Tamlen had taken, and it took her only seconds to see that the creature’s corpse was gone. Cold crept along her skin.

“What is it?” Fenarel murmured. Illyria shook her head, pressing on. She examined every shadow for signs of Tamlen, but one could be forgiven for thinking the place had been empty for hundreds of years.

Illyria froze as she heard a fourth pair of footsteps joined theirs. The corridor they crept along was too dark for her gaze to pierce, so she listened blindly for another sound.

“So these are the ruins?” Merrill murmured. “Interesting. They are definitely of human origin, yet pieces of our history are scattered amongst them.”

“Ready your weapons,” Illyria whispered, listening carefully. Silence descended upon the corridor until her ears picked up a soft twang, then the whirr of an arrow, growing louder every moment. “Down!” she commanded, crouching just in time.

A chant began in Merrill’s throat but Illyria put a hand to her arm, silencing it. “Light,” she demanded, eyes fixed on the blackness. Merrill acquiesced, letting golden light fill the corridor.

The creature was only as tall as a child, but its body was almost twice as thick. Black spots flecked the dull green skin its crude armour left uncovered, and the haunting grimace that pulled back its lips revealed a mouth full of pointed yellow teeth.

An arrow to the skull brought the creature down quickly, and Illyria searched the rest of the corridor in vain. It was empty. Pressing her fingernails into her palms, she strode on.

“What was that?” Fenarel breathed.

Merrill shook her head. “I am glad you are with us, Fenarel.”

Eventually, they came upon the blind corner and the corpses beyond. A lump formed in Illyria’s throat. If she’d demanded here that Tamlen turn around instead of merely suggesting it, none of this would be happening. Tamlen would be safe, she would be well, and the worst that could happen was a rebuke from Master Ilen for avoiding him to go hunting.

“Why are you stopping?” Fenarel whispered. His voice was so soft that it didn’t echo, not even once.

“There is dark magic here,” Merrill muttered.

“These corpses woke last time. They attacked Tamlen and I.”

“They _woke_?” Fenarel stepped back, his eyes widening.

Illyria smiled wanly. “They were simple opponents.”

The three of them picked their way through the corpses hesitantly, but not so much as a single twitch arose. The golden door loomed ahead, calling to her.

“This is beautiful,” Merrill breathed, catching up. Illyria bit the inside of her cheek, pulling blood onto her tongue. “The mirror is behind this door?” Illyria nodded, frozen in place. If she didn’t find Tamlen here, it was likely she never would.

Illyria bowed her head to pray to Ghilan’nain, the goddess the tattoos on her forehead and nose paid homage to. She offered up the most desperate words she could find, clenching her hands into fists.

The others waited patiently until she opened her eyes and willed herself to pull the door open, taking a shaky breath. It came away from the frame as she pulled, slowly and then all at once.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Illuminated by the frosty glow of the mirror was a lone figure, its back to her. Her eyes flooded and she rushed forward.

She stopped suddenly. It wasn’t Tamlen.

The figure was too tall, the shoulders too broad. The armour was not the gentle green of Tamlen’s, but a dull, hard grey. It was the Grey Warden from earlier that morning, the human Ashalle had branded an ally.

Illyria’s pain returned with vengeance, searing her entire body. It wrenched the air from her lungs and shook her knees. Her eyes darted through the room, desperate for anything that might lead her to Tamlen.

There was nothing.

“So you were the one fighting darkspawn,” the human’s voice cut through the silence. He turned, settling his eyes on Illyria so intensely that she fidgeted. “I thought I heard combat.” His gaze found interest in nothing but Illyria as he came forward. “You’re the elf I found unconscious, aren’t you? I’m surprised you have recovered.”

Her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger. This time, she would not be caught off guard. “You saw this morning that I am capable of defending myself, human.” Illyria hated the taste of the shemlen language in her mouth, hated the halting words they spoke, but like every other Dalish child, she’d been forced to sit through lessons.

“Illyria!” Merrill admonished. “You owe this human your _life_ , and even if you did not, a Grey Warden deserves respect!” Illyria opened her mouth to explain she didn’t respect those she couldn’t trust, but the human spoke before she could.

“She owes me nothing. It was my duty to return one of your own to your clan; the Dalish have always been allies of the Grey Wardens.” He touched the fingers of his right hand to his left shoulder, bowing his head. The gesture was old Dalish formality, used to express empathy for another, or to honour a mage or a god. It did nothing to mollify Illyria. “I am Duncan, Commander of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.”

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Duncan of the Grey Wardens,” Merrill returned, bowing in the same fashion. She must have been practising her greeting. “I am Merrill, the Keeper’s apprentice.”

Illyria wanted to scream.

“And I am Fenarel,” threw in the elf behind her. “Did you come here alone, human? Battling those creatures?” the shemlen tongue sounded bizarre in the mouths of her clanmates.

“I did. Battling darkspawn is what we Wardens are created for.” His gaze swivelled back to Illyria. “Your Keeper didn’t send you after me, did she? I told her I would be in no danger.”

“We are searching for our clanmate.” Her voice was stiff and unforgiving.

“Ah, yes...what was his name? Tamlen?” His name sounded wrong in the human’s mouth. Illyria wanted to forbid him from saying it. “You and your friend Tamlen entered this cave three days ago? And you found this mirror?”

“You have found some trace of him?” she cared not about the note of hope in her voice. She cared not how she looked if it meant she had Tamlen back.

“No. Nor do I think I will.”

Ice flooded Illyria’s veins.

The human gestured to the mirror behind him. Dark shapes still swirled beneath the surface, blotting out the light. “The Grey Wardens have seen artefacts like this before. It is elven in origin, used for communication. Over time, some of them simply...break. They become filled with the same taint as the darkspawn. A simple touch could have released that disease. It is what made you sick—and Tamlen too, I presume.”

“I do not fear this sickness,” Merrill shrugged. “The Keeper knows how to cure it.”

The shem shook his head. “No. She may have weakened it, but she cannot cure it. Your recovery is only temporary,” he fixed his dark eyes on her. “I sense the sickness in you, and it _is_ spreading. Look inside yourself, and you will see.” Illyria didn’t need to. She had only to feel the throbbing in her head, the spasms cramping her back, to know what the human said was true. But she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing her pain.

The human turned back to the mirror when it became clear Illyria would not reply. “This mirror is a danger to all, and it must be dealt with.”

“Is there no way to fix it?” Merrill started forward, crestfallen.

“Unfortunately not. The disease has been unleashed, and it will taint all who come near it, now. I am afraid there is no other way.” He began up the marble steps, unsheathing the greatsword slung across his back. Illyria couldn’t shake the memory of climbing those steps herself, clutching at Tamlen’s arm.

The human swung his blade, and the shattering of glass echoed through the room. A blinding flash of white light came and went so quickly Illyria wondered if she’d imagined it. Shards of glass landed on the stone.

The human shook his blade and sheathed it, descending the steps. Glass crunched beneath his heavy boots. “It is done,” boomed his deep voice. “Now let us leave this cursed place. I must speak with your Keeper immediately regarding your cure.”

Illyria’s chest tightened. That was it? They weren’t even going to _search_ for Tamlen?

“I will not leave without Tamlen,” she breathed, shaking her head.

The human frowned at her. “Let me be very clear. There is _nothing_ you can do for him. He has been tainted for three days now, unaided.” He stepped toward her. “Through your Keeper’s healing arts and your own willpower, you did not die. But Tamlen has no chance. Trust me when I say that he is gone.” Her hand drew close to her sword as the human drew close to her. Fenarel noticed, and he lay a hand on her arm.

Illyria set her teeth and spoke through them, hating the shemlen tongue and its limitations. “I will _not_ leave without Tamlen,” she repeated, digging her fingernails into her palm.

The human sighed. “If you prefer, I can wait outside while you look around. But if you have not found him by now…” he shook his head. “Beyond this room is only rubble that even I could not clear. I suggest leaving sooner, rather than later. You are sick and it does you no good to linger.”

“Wait outside, human.” Her voice was harsh, and she didn’t care to make it more accommodating. He lingered for a moment, as if he expected her to say something else. She didn’t.

“As you wish.” His boots fell heavily on the stone as he passed them, making for the door. It shut behind him, and Illyria searched the room for any clue, any disturbance.

The place was clean.

Quiet words flew back and forth between Merrill and Fenarel, but Illyria didn’t care enough to listen in. She made her way towards the mirror’s hollow frame, peering through. The stone on the opposite side of the room caved in in the centre, forming a smooth, round opening.

Her feet carried her forward, deftly skirting the broken glass. A coil of anticipation tightened in her gut until the pain was unbearable.

Two sets of footsteps accompanied hers, but Fenarel and Merrill had fallen quiet. Rubble formed a gentle incline to the mouth of the smaller cave, and Illyria stepped tentatively until she reached a platform of cultured stone.

Her eyes flicked around the cave, stumbling across the silhouette of a body. She stared at it, frozen. All her eyes could make out in the blackness was the shape of the motionless figure, sprawled on its back. Her heart raced, and her mouth went dry. She tried to swallow, to no avail. The others stopped behind her, then Merrill’s voice echoed around them, softer than Illyria had ever heard it.

“It is not Tamlen.”

The mage came forth, brightening the glow of her staff. Relief flooded Illyria, though it could not unravel the knot of fear that twisted her abdomen. The figure ahead of them had lain there for so long that the skin had completely rotten from its bones.

Merrill left her staff shining bright as they started forward again. They rounded a tight bend, and all at once, the end of the cave stared them down.

It was empty.

The cave went quiet, and it took Illyria a long time to realise the silence was inside her, not outside. She was projecting it, refusing to let any sound in. Her legs failed her, and she felt no pain as her knees struck the stone. A hand came to her shoulder but whose it was, she knew not. All she could do was stare at the hollow end of the tunnel, trying to stop herself from understanding what it meant.

She knew not how long she knelt there, staring at the wall. It could have been seconds or hours before Fenarel knelt before her, forcing her eyes to focus on his face. She saw his lips move, but heard no sound; it was as if she was watching him speak to someone else.

He took both her hands, pulling her to her feet. She went without protest, because it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter anymore.

“...found a body yet. We do not know...” snippets of Fenarel’s platitudes crept in under the blanket of silence, “...search outside if he is not...” Her feet were placing themselves in front of one another, and she was keeping up with the others, but her mind was far away.

Her name rang out, once, twice...seven times, and she forced herself to tune in again. The three of them stood in the cave’s entrance, the crumbling pillars acting witness to her crime. “We are going to search the area. But we must do so before night falls.” Illyria nodded, numbly. Of course she would do it if it would help Tamlen; Fenarel should know that already. They climbed from the cave’s mouth, and Fenarel helped her to stand straight. Had they encountered any darkspawn on their way from the mirror room? She didn’t remember.

Illyria watched as he spoke to the human, who scowled and argued but eventually relented, throwing up his hands. Fenarel led the way through the trees, hugging the perimeter of the ruin, and Illyria followed. She knew this was just an effort to keep her holding on; the other hunters had combed the forest while she lay sick, and they had found nothing.

The pain in her skull flared up as they walked, and she swallowed down nausea. To Illyria, illness tasted of rosehip tea. It was her favourite, and Tamlen brewed it for her every time she fell ill. He’d known how to pick and dry the fruit since they were six years old, and he stored it in a small cotton pouch that was always off-limits unless she was sick.

There was no tea now. Not unless she made it herself.

The human was back when Illyria next looked up. Initially, she assumed he’d grown impatient and caught up to them, but when she looked around, she saw the mouth of the cave.

Fenarel’s voice pushed at her until she forced herself to tune in again. “...give up hope, Illyria. We can come back and search tomorrow; catch up with the clan.” She forced her head into a nod, which seemed to satisfy him.

Illyria remembered little about the trip back, save for the cracking of autumn leaves beneath her boots. Noise was absent one moment, and everywhere the next. Her eyes surveyed her surroundings, taking in fires, aravels, and elves. Camp looked different than usual, though she couldn’t decide why.

They passed into the oval clearing between the aravels, attracting wary glances. It was these that reminded her of the human at her back.

Marethari gazed briefly at their party as they approached. “I am relieved you have returned.” She spoke soothingly, contradicting the storm in her eyes. “I did not expect to see you so soon, Duncan.” The Keeper’s deference made little sense in Illyria’s mind. This human may give himself all the titles he liked; he was still a human.

“I was not expecting to return so soon either, Keeper.” He bowed his head respectfully.

“Dare I ask of Tamlen, _da’len_?” Marethari’s voice rested comfortably in the shemlen tongue. “What did you find of him?”

Illyria dropped her gaze, focusing on her boots.

“I see.” The Keeper murmured a string of soft, quick words beneath her breath. “Merrill, what of the mirror? Did you bring anything back with you?”

“I can answer that, Keeper,” interrupted the human. “I destroyed the mirror.”

The Keeper’s silver brows pulled close to one another. “I intended to use it to find a cure for Illyria’s illness. For what reason did you destroy it?”

A sigh escaped the human. “There is much to discuss; I have learned a great deal since I was last here.”

“Then let us speak privately.” She turned to her apprentice. “Merrill, warn the hunters. If darkspawn are about, I want them prepared.”

“ _Ma nuvenin_ , Keeper. Right away.” Merrill pressed her right-hand fingers to her left shoulder before she left, beckoning to Fenarel.

The Keeper closed her hands around Illyria’s, but she barely felt the woman’s withered fingers against her own. “ _Da’len,_ allow me some time to speak with Duncan. I will seek you out later, and we can discuss your cure.”

“We can not discuss it now?” Illyria cringed at the sound of her own voice. She tried to swallow the lump that tightened her throat, but it refused to move.

“I must talk with your Keeper, first,” the human interrupted. “It will not take long.”

“Illyria,” Marethari tilted her head, “spend some time with the halla.” Illyria nodded slowly, and the Keeper dropped her hands. “Follow me, Duncan. I am eager to hear what you have to say.”

The two of them left her standing alone.

Concentrating only on placing one foot ahead of the other, she began to walk.

“Illyria!”

She whirled to face whoever had spoken, and found herself staring at Hahren Paivel. Children crowded his fire – as usual – accompanied by two healers, Wraya and Fyela. Illyria made her way over to the blaze, but she could not feel its heat. The children fell silent as the elder’s eyes roamed over her, scrutinizing. “You return to us,” he announced, “without Tamlen. Is it as we fear?” Illyria felt the others’ gazes boring into her skin. She kept her mouth shut.

Paivel was silent for a long moment. The elder had only ever admonished her once before, and the shame he’d stirred within her made her vow to never to give him reason again. “Alva’s son...I had never thought to hear this news.” He hung his head, curling his hands into fists. Wraya pressed her face into Fyela’s neck, and her bondmate held her close.

Paivel stood, coming to place a hand on Illyria’s shoulder. “Illyria Mahariel. You may grieve for your fallen beloved, but not until you understand the part you played in his death. Once you saw what was inside that cave, you should have returned for the aid of the Keeper. But you kept exploring, did you not?” Paivel’s green eyes scrutinized her, but etiquette would not allow her to look away.

“Yes, Hahren.”

“No longer are you a child, Illyria! It is _their_ turn to look up to _you_.” He swept an arm towards the children at the fire. “Have you set a good example? Have you upheld the trust of your clan?” The tone of Paivel’s voice hurt more than her head did.

“No, Hahren,” her numb lips formed the words.

The elder shook his head, silver hair falling about his face. “Tamlen pays the price of _your_ mistakes. Do you see that?”

“Yes, Hahren.” Her response was a whisper.

“You belong to more than just yourself. Or do you not remember?”

“I remember, Hahren.”

“And yet you risk yourself in such a way. You risk Tamlen...” Paivel let go a sigh, and the lines on his face softened. He looked away. “And you have lost him. It is punishment for all the clan, and it is punishment for you.” Illyria curled her hands into fists, and searched in vain for a reason to be grateful the mirror had left her alive. “I will let you alone,” Paivel said, softly. “You may grieve, little one.”

“Thank you, Hahren.” Illyria turned away numbly, placing one foot in front of the other.

After a while, she came upon the halla pen. Methodically, she unstrapped her weapons, leaving them at the fence, and ducked between the woven branches. The halla grazed around her as she settled herself in the centre of the pen, crossing her legs.

She had spent half of her childhood here, learning about the creatures. The halla were sensitive; able to project and interpret emotions. She knew they felt the knot of twisted emotion inside her.

One of the does settled down beside her, folding her white legs beneath her body. She stroked her hand over its soft coat, letting the familiar sounds of camp lap at her like waves – the rise and fall of Hahren Paivel’s voice as he told a tale, the children’s secretive whispers, the crackling of the fires.

Footsteps sounded from behind the pen.

“She is heavy with calf,” Illyria noted quietly, still stroking her fingers along the doe’s coat.

“It should not be a problem; we will not tether her.” Maren settled down beside her, lifting her long green skirt as she sank to the ground. It was a familiar pose they took; one they’d assumed since childhood. “It is good to see you recovered, lethallan.”

Illyria averted her gaze. “You speak too soon. I am yet ill.”

“Still? Of this mysterious illness? Or is it your spirit that is sick?” Maren waited patiently for an answer.

“I feel...empty. There is no way...no _way_ I could possibly—” she pressed her lips together, sucking in a deep breath. “I can not have lost him, Maren. I do not know who I am without Tamlen; part of me is gone if he is.”

Maren’s lips tilted down at the sides. “The two of you—”

“Illyria!” Sival’s voice shocked Maren silent, and the child grinned at them as she ducked under the fence. “You are back!”

The seven-year-old wedged herself between her and Maren, and they put aside their conversation. Sival took Illyria’s hand, raising her eyebrows. The world had not changed for her as it had for Illyria. “Where is Tamlen, Illyria? They say you went to find him. Is he back, now? I need his opinion.”

“He...” Illyria’s voice cracked. “He is not back yet, Sival.”

Sival frowned. “But I need his opinion. When is he coming back?”

“I know not,” Illyria admitted, swallowing. She couldn’t cry in front of Sival. She wouldn’t.

The seven-year-old frowned. “Illyria, is Tamlen—”

Illyria pat her legs and tried to pull her lips into a smile. “Come here, little one.”

Sival flashed a grin that showed every one of her teeth, and climbed into Illyria’s lap. She was too big to fit properly these days, and Illyria’s legs ached beneath her weight, but at least she asked no more questions. Illyria pressed a kiss to the top of her head and rocked her from side to side, humming a tune.

“When will you teach me to braid my hair like yours?” Sival whined, for what must have been the fifth time that week.

“When it has grown long enough,” Illyria intoned, tugging playfully at her braids, “you know that.” Sival scowled.

Illyria recommenced her tune, and Maren smiled as Sival’s eyes fluttered closed. She softened in Illyria’s lap for a moment, then stiffened suddenly. Her eyes flew open. “Maren! Can I have your opinion?”

Maren’s voice was gentler than Illyria’s could ever be. “On what, little one?”

Sival stole a glance at Illyria, who pretended not to notice it. “It is a secret,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning forward. Darting out of Illyria’s lap, she pulled at Maren’s wrist. “Please come.”

“All right,” Maren’s laugh rang out like a bell as Sival dragged her from the pen. The woman turned back as she left the pen, but Illyria lowered her eyes, avoiding Maren’s gaze.

 

A while passed, and Illyria began to watch the camp.

She followed the elves with her eyes as they ran to and fro, frantic. Hahren Paivel had finished his stories to help Ilen pack his aravel, and the pots at the cooking fire had disappeared. The sacred fire burnt twice as brightly as usual, and the smoke that billowed from the blaze carried the scent of sage. Illyria considered the scent for a moment. It was a ritual herb, and it wasn’t burned unless the clan was preparing for a funeral.

She blinked. Her stomach sank, and the ground was beneath her feet before she realised she’d gotten up. She stumbled to the fence. Her hands grasped it for something to hold on to, something to focus on rather than the thoughts. She tried to force in air, but her throat tightened, blocking it out.

“Illyria? _Illyria!_ ” She dragged her gaze to where Sival stood, with a smile at her lips and a circlet in her hands. It was made from several layers of daisies, with rosemary for strength. “We made this! For you!”

“Oh.”

Sival’s smile fell. “You do not like it?”

Illyria’s lips were numb, but somehow she forced them into a smile. “I love it, little one. Will you put it on me?”

Sival’s cheeks dimpled and she ducked under the fence as Illyria knelt. The child placed the circlet on Illyria’s head with such solemnity that she might have been swearing in royalty. Illyria tugged at Sival’s braids playfully, then pulled her close to kiss her forehead. “Thank you, little one. Will you tell the others I said that?”

A smile stretched Sival’s face and she nodded, racing out of the halla pen. Illyria followed with her eyes as the child weaved through the clan. A fit of spasms clawed at her back, curving her spine into an unnatural shape. She groaned, pain washing through her.

“ _Da’len_?” her eyes lifted from the fire and gazed into those of the Keeper. If Marethari’s eyes had been a storm before, now they were nothing less than a hurricane.

“What are they doing?” she breathed.

“They are preparing a service for the dead. We have no body to return to the soil, but we still shall sing for Tamlen. The creators must come to guide him to the Beyond.” A line appeared between the Keeper’s brows as her eyes wandered Illyria’s face. “I am _sorry_ , little one. The story you two have woven has been tragic indeed. But it is important we do not lose you too. Please, come with me, and we can discuss your cure.”

“It does not matter, it does not...” the anger was new, leaking into her bloodstream. “I do not want to hear it. If you are so ready to believe Tamlen is gone, then you can believe the same of me.”

“Illyria. We have done all that we could. Had you been unaided by my magic, even you would not be with us. We can risk nobody else to these tainted ruins. I have only decided to see the truth, which is that he is lost to us.”

Illyria’s gaze fell to her hands. She hated them. What good were they, if they could not save Tamlen? What good was she?

“I loved him too.” The words dampened the flames of Illyria’s anger. She paused and ducked under the fence, meeting Marethari’s gaze. The aquamarine eyes swept over her again, then the Keeper turned and led the way to her aravel.

The human was inside, and he climbed to his feet as they entered, his eyes fixed to her. He and Marethari shared a long glance, and Illyria looked back and forth between them.

“Your Keeper and I have spoken,” began the human, “and we’ve come to an arrangement that concerns you.” Illyria was still. “My order is in need of help,” he continued. “You are in need of a cure. When I leave, I hope you will join me. You would make an excellent Grey Warden.”

An excellent Grey Warden.

Moments passed before the words made sense in her mind. Her blood ran cold when they did. No. Her Fereldan was poor, and she had heard the human wrong.

She looked to the Keeper; searched the woman’s face. But there was nothing there for her.

“No.” Illyria’s head spun. “No...this...” she tried to curl her hands into fists, but they would not go. “Madness. This...is madness.” She forsook the ugly shemlen language, but Marethari responded in it.

“This is _not_ madness, Illyria. Your survival depends on it. We would not send you away, but there is more at stake.” Marethari stepped toward her, reaching out a hand.

Illyria stepped back, and the Keeper blinked.

“The darkspawn taint is already in your blood. That you recovered at all is remarkable. But eventually, the taint will sicken and kill you...or worse. The Grey Wardens can prevent this, but it means joining us.”

“You would...buy my service in exchange for a cure? Is there nothing else I can give you?” If her blood would pay the debt, it was his.

“The cure is only found in joining the Grey Wardens. As the sole protectors against the darkspawn, we are granted some immunity to the taint. But this is not charity; we enlist only the worthy, and you have certainly proven yourself. You are vigilant; a creature of your habitat. Your skill with the bow will make you a valuable member of the order.”

Bile rose in her throat, and she fought the urge to empty her stomach. When had her last meal been, anyhow? The blackberries, in the forest?

“No. No, I can not leave. Not now. Perhaps when I find Tamlen, the both of us could join your order for a time. But we are needed here.” The clan would come upon a hard winter without two of its hunters.

A sigh escaped the human. “When you join, it’s unlikely you will ever be able to return here. Being a Grey Warden is a commitment that will stay with you for the rest of your life.”

Illyria took a step back; a reflex. She turned to Marethari, but the Keeper’s eyes had hardened. Anger bubbled within Illyria, hot and corrosive. “That is it. That is _it_? The clan is sending me away?”

“A great army of darkspawn gathers in the south, _da’len._ A new Blight threatens the land. We can not outrun this storm,” Marethari said. “Long ago, the Dalish agreed to stand with the Grey Wardens against a Blight, should that day arrive. We must honour that agreement.”

Illyria’s face was numb. “I will not do it,” she swore. Her Keeper’s gaze was sharp upon her, and she was not so lost in her grief that she didn’t feel the rebuke. “This is my home,” she implored. “This is all I have ever known.”

“A home that darkspawn may tear apart.” The human fanned the flames of Illyria’s anger with his deep voice, his stoic expression. “This way, you can find a cure _and_ protect your clan. Have courage.”

She had never lacked courage. This was not a test of it. That, she knew.

“I can not express my sadness at sending one of our daughters off into such danger, away from the clan that loves her. But if this is what the creators intend for you, _da’len,_ then meet your destiny with your head held high.” The Keeper took her by the shoulders, and she had not the energy to pull away. “No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that.”

“Do not cast me away. Not after what has happened. Please, let me stay.” Begging was not beneath her. “I would sooner die with my clan than live amongst humans.” A burst of pain shot through the back of her skull, and her vision turned white. She bit her tongue, tasting blood. This pain could stay, she didn’t care if it stayed, as long as _she_ could, as long as Tamlen was by her side.

“I am sorry, _da’len._ ” The Keeper’s face crumpled, and a storm flashed in her eyes.

“You leave me no choice,” said the human, stepping close. “I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription.”

Marethari bowed her head. “...And I witness and acknowledge your invocation, Duncan of the Grey Wardens.”

A crease formed between the human’s thick eyebrows. “I am sorry this was not your choice, Illyria. But the darkspawn threat is simply too great.” She hated her name in his mouth, hated it even more than she had Tamlen’s.

“You will not take me against my will,” she insisted hollowly. The Dalish blood in her veins demanded that she never submit to human rule, but was that not what her Keeper was asking of her?

The human’s eyes narrowed. “I will drag you, kicking and screaming, to Ostagar if I must. Would you rather die here, and sicken your own people?”

Illyria’s refusal died in her throat. “This sickness will spread?”

“It is only a matter of time.”

Pain clawed into her back, her neck, her eyes.

“Then I will go.” It was all she could do to breathe the words loud enough for the human to hear.

“I know you will make us proud, _da’len._ ”

Illyria was silent. She had nothing left to say.

“Now, are you ready to go?”

Her chest tightened. “ _Now_?”

The human frowned. “I have already waited longer than is wise. You can afford less delay that I, and we have much ground to cover.” He grimaced. “But you’re right; night has already fallen. It would not do for us to brave the Brecilian forest in the dark. We will wait until dawn, but I expect you to be ready before first light.”

Illyria forced a nod and turned to leave. Neither of them stopped her.

The night she stepped out into was inky, the darkness pierced only by the fire in the centre of camp. The clan surrounded the blaze, their voices floating up to the stars with the smoke.

Illyria lingered in the shadows, watching the smoke curl into the stars. She realized at once that this night was her last – never again would she hunt with Tamlen, or fashion circlets with the children, or listen to Paivel’s tales. Everything she knew, everything she loved, was gone.

She began to sweat as she stared into the fire, the heat creeping along of her skin until it engulfed her completely. Smoke swirled into her lungs, and the song of the dead rang in her ears so loudly that her head throbbed. She looked to the stars to ground herself, but her head spun and she staggered.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she backed away from the heat, from the noise. The funeral was a farce; she would not give up on him as easily as the others had.

Illyria disappeared between the trees.

The cool night air was welcome; a balm to her burning skin. A gentle breeze washed through the leaves of the trees, and the fresh scent of the towering pines surrounded Illyria. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes. Would there be pines at the human camp?

She dragged a hand over her face and pushed on.

Her feet took her to the places she and Tamlen had made their own in the past two months. Atop a flat rock between the pines, under the canopy of a fallen tree. There was no sign of him, but she called his name anyway, giving away her location to any predator there might be. Her safety was not a priority anymore.

Her feet ached, and the sickness spread the pain all the way up her legs. They burned as she walked, but she clenched her teeth and kept on.

She searched for hours, stilling only when she came upon the last place.

Again, there was no sign of anyone, and again, she called his name. An owl called in response and she jumped, dragging her bicep along the end of a jagged branch. She looked down at her arm, prodding at the torn flesh. She felt no pain.

Illyria unslung her bow and sat, pressing her back into the trunk of a tree. The bark was rough against her skin, her face warm in her hands. Something silky pressed against her fingertips, and her brow furrowed before she remembered Sival’s circlet. The crown split in two as she lifted it from her head.

“Oh, little blade.” Her voice was so heavy with sorrow that her tongue could barely push the words out. “What has happened to us?”

Spasms claimed her hips, then her legs, immobilizing her. She sat, waiting for the clouds to clear, to show her the stars, but they would not. Searching further would do her no good, but the only alternative was giving up, and the idea of it clutched at her chest so tightly that it was hard to breathe.

Tamlen would search for her. Until he could walk no longer, he would search.

“Illyria.” The sound jolted through her and she looked up to see Marethari standing between two towering oaks.

The woman raised her eyebrows and Illyria shook her head. “I thought—” her voice would not come. She coughed, and tried again. “I was not trying to leave. I thought that if I could find him before we—before _I_ leave, he could be cured too. We could protect each other.” She hugged her knees to her chest, tightly.

The Keeper approached, lowering herself to the ground to sit beside Illyria. A long pause stretched between them. “Grey Wardens are held in high esteem amongst the shemlen,” she said, softly. “The humans will be no real danger to you. Be wary of them, as you have been taught...but they will be as wary of you. Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” she objected. The Keeper’s forehead creased, the corners of her lips twitching. Illyria wanted to scowl. “If they are so wary of us, why are we always running from their swords?” she demanded. “Why have they stolen our memories, our land?”

“Humans consider themselves lucky to live for sixty years, Illyria. They have half the time we have, and they do not remember as we do. For most of them, these are distant happenings; the deeds of great grandmothers.”

“They killed my father.”

Marethari nodded slowly. “They did,” she relented. “Yet he did much as Keeper to bridge our worlds; far more than I have in his wake. Your father understood that the actions of one human are not representative of their entire race. I think he would want you to remember this.” A sigh escaped her. She turned to Illyria, and a storm raged in her eyes. “Do not hate me because you think this easy on me, little one; it breaks my heart to send you away. Just as it would to watch you die slowly from this sickness. This is your destiny, and your salvation.”

“Destiny...” A corrosive chuckle escaped her throat. “I thought my destiny was to continue my father’s work, but the creators did not see fit to bless me with their will. I thought Tamlen and I would make a family, but...” The breath left Illyria’s lungs. She shook her head. That had been buried six years ago, and it helped nobody to dwell on it now. “And now...it is my destiny to leave everything I know and love; to live amongst humans? A life of killing things?”

“Some are destined for darker things than others, _da’len._ The path ahead of you holds death, that is true. But it also holds life; love. Take comfort in this.” The Keeper rose to her feet, extending a hand to Illyria. “We must return to camp. You need sleep, and time to collect your things.” Reluctance made her movements slow as she grasped the Keeper’s hand and righted herself. She slung her bow on her back, and it spasmed in retaliation.

“How did you find me?” she asked. The Keeper gave her a mysterious smile, but nothing more.

They set a brisk pace, the moon lighting their way. The trip was not spent in silence, but they were careful to keep their voices low.

They reached camp sooner than Illyria expected. The fire had died down to glowing embers, but the scent of sage still hung in the air. Marethari’s hands closed around Illyria’s, and she bade her goodnight, kissing her vallaslin. Illyria nodded numbly and picked her way across camp, dragging her feet. She stopped to take a breath before she entered her aravel, balling her hands into fists.

Junar and Fenarel were already asleep, and she crept by them to sit on the edge of her bed, clutching the furs between her fingers. She stared at Tamlen’s empty bed.

The ache in her forehead brought water to her eyes. At least, that was what she told herself. She looked away, but her eyes turned back unbidden.

Standing, she left behind her bed for his, smoothing her hand along the soft furs. She breathed in his scent as she lay down, pulling the furs over her. She thought of the days when she used to sleep here, when he’d form a half moon with his body for her to curl up inside.

Her fingers clutched the furs until sleep came. There was no pain in sleep.

 

“Illyria! _Lethallan_!” Illyria turned away from the voice. “’Lyria!” The voice was nothing if not persistent, and despite her conviction, she lost her handle on sleep. Her head throbbed, and her eyes watered. She forced them open.

“Where is Tamlen?” she tripped over her words, squinting up at Fenarel.

The hunter’s face dropped, and Illyria remembered. She sat up. “Oh.”

Fenarel nodded. “You leave today,” he whispered, swallowing. His expression was strong, but Illyria found despair in the line of his lips, the creases by his eyes.

She took his hands, gripping them tight. “I am sorry we were so invested in each other; that we did not include you more. We always wanted to, but it—” her voice broke, and Fenarel shook his head, squeezing her hands.

“It does not matter.” A sound that was neither a chuckle or a sob escaped him, and he leant in to kiss her forehead. “I will miss you. Who will I hunt with now? Junar?”

“Hey!” exclaimed Junar, “I can teach you a thing or two, young one.” Illyria and Fenarel shared a smile. The older hunter came into her line of sight, and Fenarel dropped her hands. “I will miss you, Illyria. You have such promise, _lethallan_. Return to us safe.”

Illyria bowed her head.

“There is yet an hour before dawn; you did not sleep long. The clan will wake with you to fare you well.” She nodded, catching her lip between her teeth.

“I must gather my things,” she murmured. The others nodded and left the aravel, giving her time to collect her possessions. To collect herself. Her reluctance made her slow as she pushed the furs from her lap.

Illyria didn’t own many things. She’d recieved most of her belongings at the same time as her vallaslin: her armour, her weapons, her pendant. But there were things she’d collected over the years, too: a small halla figurine Maren had carved from the horn of one of the creatures; a cloak of thick fur Ashalle had sewn for her many winters ago; a golden circlet Ilen had made for her seven years ago, to match Tamlen’s. Her fingers ghosted over the metal, and a shaky exhale left her. She set it back down.

A scuffling noise startled her from her reverie, and her eyes landed on Alva, who stood in the doorway. Her hair was the colour of moonlight, the same as her son’s, and it fell to her knees in waves. Her eyes glistened with tears. Illyria swallowed, starting forward. “Alva, I—” The woman hushed her, holding out her arms.

Illyria let herself be held.

“I know how you think, Illyria Mahariel,” her voice was as smooth as the sea, “but Tamlen’s death was no fault of yours.” Alva pulled back, exhaling. She studied Illyria’s face. “You did everything you could to save my son, and more. Now all I hope for is his safe passage to the Creators.” Illyria opened her mouth to assure Alva that he wasn’t dead, but she saw the tears in Alva’s eyes, the resigned line of her mouth.

She closed it again.

Alva held up a sheathed dagger, the design of which Illyria knew well. She unsheathed the blade and held it out to Illyria. “He left behind some of his collection when he left our aravel to be with you young ones.” She was referring to Tamlen’s collection of daggers. He had scavenged from shemlen corpses; stolen from merchants long after the elders had banned him.

“Humans are strange creatures,” he’d told her once, upon his return. “Loud and self-interested.”

His choice of weapon had confused the adults in the clan. Every so often, an elf forsook the way of the bow for sword and shield, but never daggers. Tamlen refused to relinquish his fascination, and Illyria’s nickname for him stuck: _da’mi_ ; my little blade.

The dagger in Alva’s grip was his favourite. He’d found the weapon more than ten years ago, but Illyria still remembered his excited rambling when he found it. A moon waned and waxed again as he coaxed the metal from the dirt caked upon it, but nobody could deny his task had been worthwhile once he had finished. The dagger’s blade curved to a delicate tip, so clear she could see her reflection in it. Its golden hilt was decorated with delicate filigree patterns, and nestled in the end was an emerald the size of her eye. “I think he would have wanted you to take this. He always did say it would have great adventures.”

Illyria shook her head, “No...I can not possibly—”

“Yes,” she said kindly, “you can. It will do better in your hand than it would sitting in my aravel. Perhaps it will even save your life someday.” Eventually, Illyria grasped the dagger strapped to her thigh. It was not graceful like the weapon Alva held, but Illyria had never been concerned by grace. She set it aside gently, accepting Alva’s gift. The emerald made the new dagger heavy in her sheath. “Thank you, Alva. I am grateful.” She brushed her shoulder with her fingertips and bowed her head.

“Stop that, will you? Don’t get formal with me.”

Illyria let her lips curl, but they fell after a moment. She could tell from the light outside that the sun was not far from rising. “I need to find the shem.”

Alva’s brow creased and she reached up to smooth her thumbs along Illyria’s forehead. “He plans on coming into camp for you.” Illyria dropped her eyes, but Alva’s fingers lifted her chin. “He _is_ human, and do not forget that. But were any human to take you from your home, I would want for it to be somebody like him.” Illyria blinked. “Come. It is time for you say your farewells.”

Illyria’s steps were heavy as she followed Alva from her aravel, her pack slung on her shoulders. Her eyes drifted back to the unmade beds, one last time.

Illyria was used to sunrise being quiet. She was an apprentice when she began waking before the sun, to watch it climb into the sky. The Keeper joined her sometimes, Tamlen often, but Illyria remembered best the mornings alone, sitting by firepits that held nothing but ashes, watching vibrant streaks of pink and orange appear in the sky.

Today, she was not alone.

A pair of arms wrapped around her waist the moment she stepped out of her aravel, and she wheezed as they constricted around her ribs. Sival pressed her face into Illyria’s waist, and she felt the girl’s tears trickle down her skin.

She stroked a hand along Sival’s hair, murmuring a few comforting words, and little by little, the vice released. Finally, Sival dropped her arms to look up at Illyria. She crouched to the girl’s level, taking the tiny hands in her own. “I am going to miss you, little one.”

Another wave of tears came, and Sival’s shoulders shook with sobs. “But you need to make circlets with me,” she insisted. “You need to teach me to braid my hair like yours. I do not want you to go.”

“I am sick, Sival. I must.” Her thumbs smoothed along the child’s cheeks, brushing her tears away. Sival’s brow creased as Illyria pulled away, then smoothed.

“Wait here!” she turned and bolted so quickly that Illyria could only swallow her objection. She let out a sigh in its place.

Ashalle came forward and gathered Illyria to her, clutching tight. Illyria clenched her teeth. Her nose ached with the tears she was pushing back. “The home of my heart,” Ashalle whispered, “I will miss you. I will miss you. I will miss you.” She exhaled, pulling back. “But you are a strong girl; a smart girl. You _will_ survive this.” She kissed Illyria’s forehead. “Safe journey, daughter.”

Illyria clutched Ashalle tight. Her arms ached. “Thank you, Ashalle. Thank you.” It was all she could say, with the lump in her throat.

Ashalle was slow to release her, and Illyria gave her a watery smile before she walked on. The clan had formed a path for her to walk.

Hahren Paivel bowed his head as she walked by. “Go out and forge your own tale, little one. Be sure that it is epic enough to return to us in song.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. The weight was comforting. “You have your roots. Now grow your wings.” Illyria nodded gravely.

She pushed farewells from numb lips when she reached Maren, Junar, Fenarel, and lastly, the children. Finally, there was nobody left but the Keeper. The goodbye they shared passed quickly; their real farewells had been spoken the night previous, into cold forest air that made plumes with their breath. “Now begins the next chapter of your life, little one. Live it well. Bend but do not break.”

“Yes, Keeper.” It was the most Illyria could say. The Keeper understood, and she stepped back to clear the way. The human stood there, his expression inscrutable.

Pink filled the sky.

Illyria stood between the clan and the human, pulling in a deep breath. Her head throbbed. Swallowing, she walked toward the human, promising herself she wouldn’t look back.

“Illyria! Illyria, wait! Wait!” She stopped in her tracks, balling her hands into fists, and broke her own promise. Four children weaved through the clan, tripping over themselves to get to her. Sival was at the lead. “Illyria, look!” Aenon, Terna, and Ymnil crowded her, breathing hard.

Sival pushed one of the Keeper’s containers at Illyria, nodding vigorously. Inside it were three pieces of elfroot, floating in murky pondwater.

“It is a poultice! I made it! It can heal you, and now you will not have to go! You can stay! You can stay and play Rabbit and Fox with me!” she thrust the stolen container at Illyria.

Illyria’s vision blurred. She blinked furiously, knowing she could not blame these tears on a headache. “Sival, a poultice will not heal this sickness. I am sorry.”

“Yes it will!” Sival insisted, thrusting the container at her again. “A poultice will heal anything.” Illyria shook her head. “But—” panic flit over her face, “But I _need_ to fix you! Just try it. Try it!” She shoved the container at Illyria.

Illyria could do nothing but shake her head. “I must go, little one.”

“No!” Sival howled, clutching Illyria’s hands. The poultice dropped to the ground, soaking into the dirt. “No, you can not go!” her screams rang through the still morning air.

Sival’s mother ducked in, taking her under the arms. She pulled her away gently, but the child screamed with renewed vigour, tears dripping from her chin. “Please, Illyria! Please stay!”

Illyria turned away. She listened to Sival’s screams as she walked away. They did not cease until the sound faded from the distance.

“Are you all right?” came the human’s gravelly voice.

Illyria didn’t answer.


End file.
